The Night Takes Sides
by devirnis
Summary: One night changes everything. Anders helps to deal with the confusion and pain in the aftermath of All That Remains. F!Hawke/Anders. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** My take on the aftermath of the extremely emotional quest, All That Remains. I would have loved to see a little more emotion from Hawke, so here you go.

* * *

><p>I awoke<br>Only to find my lungs empty  
>And through the night<br>So it seems I'm not breathing  
>And now my dreams are nothing like they were meant to be<br>And I'm breaking down  
>I think I'm breaking down<p>

- City and Colour

**The Night Takes Sides**

She told them all to go, but Anders followed her. Aveline and Varric looked worried, but also slightly relieved, when she quickly dismissed them. No one knew how to react, how to handle any of this. It was too monstrous to be real, but it was. And he knew that she would need someone. So he followed her through the moonlit streets, up to Hightown. On a normal night she would have realized that she was being tailed—nothing fooled her keen rogue senses—but tonight had been anything but normal.

He waited a few minutes after she went inside her estate. She might be angry that he had followed her, even though she shouldn't be alone. As he leaned against the estate exterior, he surveyed Hightown. It was quiet, blissfully unaware of the gruesome revelation that had been made barely a half-hour earlier. Tomorrow, Aveline would make an announcement that a dangerous killer in Kirkwall had been dealt with, but not before he had claimed the lives of many women—Leandra Hawke included. And by midday Hightown would be abuzz with gossip and speculation. It made him bristle just thinking about it.

He decided he had waited long enough, and slipped inside the Hawke Estate without a sound. Just before he walked into the main room, he heard Gamlen's angry voice:

"So _you're_ to blame! If you'd been quicker or stronger, you could've … she could be …"

His anger flared, and the world began to darken. How _dare_ Gamlen blame her for this? They had run as fast as they could—he could _barely_ keep up with her—and her blighted uncle had been the one to _insist_ that Leandra was in no danger… No, he had to calm himself. He couldn't go storming into the room and attack Gamlen in a fit of rage. The man was grieving, and he needed someone to blame. _But blame that bastard Quentin, not her._

Gamlen's voice lost its edge, so hopefully her uncle realized how incredibly cruel he had been to his niece. Anders took a few deep breaths, clenched his fists, regaining control. He backed up into the shadows as Gamlen left the den and made to exit the estate. After Gamlen had left, he had waited a few more moments before heading for her bedroom. He didn't want her to know that he had overheard what was obviously meant to be a private conversation. And he really had no idea what he was doing. What did he do? What did he _say_?

_It doesn't matter. You just have to get up there, show her you're there for her. Go on._

Bodahn greeted him pleasantly, hardly surprised that he had appeared inside the estate once again without being shown in. The dwarf nodded towards the staircase, and Anders gave him a small, reassuring smile. Why, he didn't know. Maybe he felt sorry for all the poor dwarf was going to have to deal with in the following days.

He ascended the stairs, feeling a growing sense of panic. He had absolutely no idea what he was supposed to do—what she _needed_ him to do—and he was terrified of doing more damage. Just before he entered her room, he removed his staff and leaned it against the wall. He didn't want to remind her that he was linked in some way to the man who had just devastated her life. They were both mages—completely different men with completely different values—but mages nonetheless. The sight of a mage's staff might … make her see him in a different light.

Ironic. He had tried to push her away at first … and now he was terrified of losing everything he had resisted, tried to convince himself he didn't want.

She was sitting on the edge of her bed, staring into the fireplace. She didn't look up when he took a tentative step into her room; any other day she would have heard him at the front door. Her face was blank, emotionless—and that worried him. So he took a deep breath, and walked towards her.

"I know nothing I say will change it. I'm just …" Just what, exactly? Sorry that some maniac blood mage murdered her mother and desecrated her corpse? "I'm sorry." A tired, unoriginal summation of everything. But it was the best he had. "You were lucky to have her as long as you did. When the pain fades, that's what will really matter."

Did he really believe that? He had been taken from his family as an adolescent, so at least he had memories of them, unlike many mages in the Circle. It had always angered him that he'd been forced into the Circle before he was able to experience the intimate family life that he deserved. But was that any worse than having that close, familial bond, and then losing a mother in the most spectacularly horrific way imaginable?

She looked at him for a few seconds, silent, and his breath caught in his throat, fearing he had said something wrong. But before he could open his mouth to apologize, she hung her head.

"I didn't try hard enough to save her," she whispered.

_No, no, please don't think that._ He clenched his fists again as he recalled Gamlen's vicious words. They couldn't have done anything more. Of course, it was logical to feel guilty. She had to grieve, had to lay the blame somewhere, and she was too damn noble to hold anyone but herself accountable. Her time in Kirkwall had turned her into a martyr.

"She wouldn't want you to blame yourself." He knew that she wouldn't believe it, but it was true. Leandra had said, with her dying breaths, how proud she was of her daughter. There was no anger or condemnation, only sadly peaceful acceptance.

"You don't know my mother." She was trying to be humorous, but he could hear the bitterness in her voice.

"No. And I'm sorry I never will." He took a deep breath, and sat beside her on the bed. "I'm here for you. Whatever you need."

She didn't say anything; just glanced briefly at him and then went back to staring at the fire. He could see the flames reflected in her eyes. Suddenly, her shoulders began to shake, and then her whole body was quivering. It took him a second to realize that she was crying, hard, but without any sound. Her pain gripped his heart, and he immediately wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his chest.

"Why can't I?" she sobbed. He could hear the lump in her throat. "Why can't I protect _anyone_?"

He could see where she was coming from: her brother, whom he had never met, killed as they fled Lothering; her younger sister, tainted by the Blight; and now her mother, murdered, while they had been sorting out more bloody Qunari problems, courtesy of that zealot Ser Varnell. He didn't know how to comfort her in this situation without sounding unfeeling and detached. _I'm sorry_ and _It's not your fault_ were far too overused. So he held her close, kissed her hair and forehead.

Everyone always seemed to want something from Kirkwall's newest noble. Whether it was the Viscount, the Arishok, Hubert and his damned mine, or just random citizens, there was always someone clamouring for aid, and she felt compelled to oblige them. And as he felt his anger burn against those who demanded her help, he realized that he was no better. _Help me free Karl, help me stop Ser Alrik's misuse of the Rite of Tranquillity. Help me, help me, help me._ He was just like everyone else.

But she wasn't done speaking. "What if next time—" She took a shuddering breath, trying to stop any tears from escaping her eyes. "What if next time it's you I can't save? You and Uncle Gamlen … you're all I have left."

He froze up, completely caught off guard. She was concerned about _him_? Worried that she wouldn't be able to protect _him_? Despite all that they had been through, all that she had said, he still found it hard to believe that she cared that deeply for him. He was still expecting her to wake up one morning and realize that she had gone to bed with a monster. And then he had to remind himself that it was incredibly disrespectful of him to doubt her feelings—to assume that he loved her more than she loved him.

"Nothing is going to happen to me," he murmured into her hair, "or anyone else. I promise."

Her hands clutched tightly at his shirt, but she didn't say anything. She seemed to be focused on minimizing her sobbing, trying to compose herself, to transform back into the clever, sarcastic woman whom everyone was familiar with. It couldn't be healthy, bottling all that pain and anguish up, and showing only a small fraction of what she was truly feeling. Nothing he said would stop her from putting on this façade—she was too damn stubborn to listen, even if it was for her own good. So, while he knew she would be furious with him if she found out about this, he let a small surge of magic well up in his fingertips.

If she felt the influence of his faint spell while he gently rubbed her back, she didn't say anything. Warmth flowed out from his hands, enveloping her in a wispy shield. The trembling of her body lessened, and her tense muscles began to relax. Finally, her hands fell away from his robes, and she went limp in his arms. He laid her down on the bed and wrapped the sheets around her, and then wiped away the damp under her eyes with his thumb.

He slowly stripped down to his undershirt, laying everything neatly at the foot of the bed. He took care as he slipped under the covers, even though she wouldn't wake for at least six hours from the magic-induced sleep. It would be a long day tomorrow and she desperately deserved the rest. He slid closer to her, and moulded his body to hers. His heart still fluttered whenever he was this close to her, even after the weeks they had been together.

He watched the slow rise and fall of her chest as she slept, listened to the rhythmic sound of her breathing. She made him feel at ease, completely unperturbed. And he would be there for her, until she could smile again. Until she felt the way he did around her, and beyond.


	2. Chapter 2

And I'm afraid  
>To sleep because of what haunts me<br>Such as living with the uncertainty  
>That I'll never find the words to say<br>Which would completely explain  
>Just how I'm breaking down<p>

- City and Colour

**The Night Takes Sides**

To say it had been a long week would be an understatement.

The morning after It had happened, he awoke to his distressed lady pulling on a casual dress and dashing out of her room, shooting him a livid glare. He could hear hushed voices coming from the foyer of the Estate, and realized that Kirkwall had heard the grisly news of the previous night's events. Nobles had already begun to pay their de rigueur visits to the now-orphaned young woman, in an ill-concealed attempt to curry favour with her. He sat bolt upright, and then quickly scrambled out of the bed. In minutes he was fully dressed and had hidden his staff in the closet. He slowly crept out of her room, trying to look casual as he descended the stairs.

Six of Hightown's finest were gathered in the main room. Bodahn was nowhere to be seen—probably keeping Sandal out of trouble—and Orana was staying dutifully out of the way. The nobles were all clustered around the appropriately grim-looking host. Anders had to fight to keep the grimace off his face. Not that it really mattered. No one gave him a second glance, if they even noticed him to begin with.

"Disgusting, isn't it, Blondie?"

Anders jumped slightly; he hadn't even noticed Varric standing beside him. The merchant gave him a sideways glance, and then went back to staring disdainfully at the intruding nobles. "Like flies to a pile of shit."

"I hope that you didn't just compare our fair friend to a pile of dung."

Varric chuckled. "My mistake. I was trying to insult the leeches." He raised his eyebrows. "And _friend_? I was under the impression that you two are slightly more than that."

"Just trying to be delicate. I hear you don't think this is the best idea she's ever had."

"Well. You have to admit, from an outside perspective it _does_ seem crazy." Varric's face softened. "But she does seem genuinely happy. And it's good that she has someone, especially now."

Anders shifted uncomfortably. "Yes. I only wish I knew how to handle this better."

"Hmm." Varric frowned as one of the "guests" looked over at them, and then began whispering to the closest person in earshot. "What do you say we take this conversation to the Hanged Man? I get the feeling we're not wanted here."

"I'm sorely tempted, but it would be rather thoughtless of me to abandon her to these vultures."

"You'll be holed up in her room all day, Blondie." The dwarf's smiled deviously. "And _not_ doing what I'm going to write that you did."

Anders shrugged off the jibe. "That was an incredibly convoluted sex joke, Varric. And here I thought you were a master wordsmith."

Varric waved him off. "Very funny, Blondie. You know where I'll be if you change your mind."

Anders spent the next few hours sitting at the desk in her room, meticulously going over his manifesto, correcting any spelling errors and refining his arguments. He didn't know why, but it had suddenly become imperative that this declaration of principles could convince even the Knight-Commander herself. Anyone who read this had to realize that the simple condition of being a mage didn't automatically make that person evil, or a danger to society. It didn't make _him_—

Ah, and there it was. The reason he had been painstakingly editing his manifesto was because he needed to convince _her_ … just in case. He couldn't blame her, if her ideals had changed. A blood mage had ripped her last bit of close family away from her, all to fulfil some sick fantasy. It would understandable if …

His thoughts were interrupted as he heard the sound of her footsteps coming up the stairs. He noticed how she sped up as she came to the top of the staircase—to Leandra's room. She entered her bedchamber looking utterly exhausted, clutching two letters in her hand. Anders organized the papers on her desk and went to sit beside her on the bed.

"I can safely say," she said irritably, "that those were the _worst_ hours of my life."

Anders' mind immediately went to the previous night. Hers must have too, for her face contorted briefly, but she quickly regained her composure. "Too many strangers kissing your arse?"

She smirked. "I barely know half of them, and they're all acting like Mother was their closest friend." Her countenance changed. "They were all asking about the memorial service. I hadn't even thought of that."

"That's not your fault. You've been entertaining those fools all day. I would have been focusing all my strength on not punching them in their deceitful little mouths." That earned him an earnest giggle, the kind that made his belly grow warm. But the smile on her face dissipated as she remembered what she had in her hands. He gestured towards the papers. "Who are those from?"

"Orsino and Meredith send their regards." She scowled down at the letters. "The First Enchanter trusts that this tragedy hasn't altered my sympathies. The Knight-Commander hopes the opposite." She laughed mirthlessly. "Oh look, Meredith even wrote this herself. She didn't get her docile little assistant to do it."

The acrimony in her voice made him go cold. He couldn't read her at all; she sounded angry with both Orsino and Meredith. Which side was she on now? He didn't want to assume anything, lest it end up driving her into a fury. So he bit down on his lower lip and forced the question back down, despite desperately wanting and fearing the answer. However, she took notice of his discomfort, and reached out and touched his arm.

"Hey. What's the matter?" Gentle, delicate. But she could still care for him and despise mages.

"It's nothing important. It can wait."

A determined look appeared on her face, and he knew immediately that he wasn't leaving this room until she confessed. "Anders. Tell me."

"It's just … I mean … is Meredith … _right_?"

He regretted asking almost instantly. The question was met with shocking cold silence. And then her expression flickered between emotions: confusion, understanding and pain. It was as if he'd punched her in the gut.

"Anders …" She spoke levelly, fighting to wipe the wounded look from her features. "He was just one man. I don't hate mages because of him. I don't hate _you_. I hate that bastard, and I'm glad I killed him. But he was _just one man._"

Giddy relief flooded through him, replaced quickly by guilt. "I'm so sorry, love. I shouldn't have doubted you. It's just … if I was in your position … I don't know how I would feel."

She smiled softly at him. "I understand. I didn't mean to worry you. So _I'm_ sorry, for that."

He realized that she was doing it, _again_. Apologizing, comforting _him_. He couldn't understand how she always managed to twist everything around and make herself the one consoler. But that night he made up for it. He held her close as she cried, and whispered tenderly to her when her defences were down and she finally succumbed to the nightmares that had been lurking on the outskirts of her consciousness all day.

* * *

><p>"You don't have to do this, Hawke. It's too soon."<p>

As much as she liked Merrill, the elf's plaintive, pleading voice was beginning to grate on her last nerve. She had promised to do this. Circumstances didn't change anything. Merrill wasn't brave enough to face Keeper Marethari by herself, and even if she didn't personally think this was a good idea, she had given her word to help. And her poor friend had been waiting patiently for weeks for the opportunity to go to Sundermount. Right now, there was no outstanding business in Kirkwall, so it was Merrill's turn.

Anders was less than impressed that she was doing this; that much was painfully obvious. He had nearly popped a blood vessel when she asked him to come with the party, and promptly started spouting nonsense about how this was too soon after her mother's death, and that she shouldn't be acting like everything was fine, and how this wasn't going to distract her for that long.

Well, maybe it wasn't _complete_ nonsense.

Regardless, Merrill had timidly asked her weeks ago if they could retrieve some carving tool from her Keeper, and it was high time that they actually did just that. However, she wasn't prepared for what Marethari asked of Merrill: go and kill a Varterral. The events of the last few days had worn her to the bone. She had expected to walk up to the Keeper, have a brief argument about why Merrill was making yet _another_ mistake, and walk away with this arulin'holm. Easy. She had to exercise a considerable amount of restraint to keep herself from screaming in the old elf's face.

As she led the group up towards the Varterral's lair, she could practically feel the dark, brooding cloud hanging around Anders. Today was a bad day for him. Justice—or Vengeance or whatever—was harder to control; an alarming number of new Tranquil mages had appeared in the Gallows this morning. And Anders himself was viciously opposed to Merrill fixing the Eluvian. _But I promised her,_ she reminded herself. There was no turning back now.

But as they descended into the dank cave, she found herself strangely excited to be facing danger once again. This was her element. She could do combat. She understood fighting and strategies. Here, she was in control. When they found the body of Radha, and Merrill cried out in anguish, her blood lust was awakened. She had someone to avenge and something to hurt; the gruesome discovery of Harshal intensified the feeling. The body of Chandan lit a fire inside her. And by the time Pol fled in terror from her very confused companion, a fine red mist had settled over her vision. When the Varterral finally showed itself and attacked Pol, she didn't waste a second before charging in after it.

From behind her came Anders' shout of worry and frustration. She could hear Fenris scrambling to catch up with her as she charged the spider-like creature, daggers at the ready. Spells blasted by her, but she hardly took notice. All that mattered right now was sinking her weapons into that monster's flesh.

Because while she was fighting, she could forget about the abyss inside her. She could forget the gaping wound in her chest that she wasn't sure would ever heal. She could pretend that the last few days had never happened, and everything was fine and _normal_. So she went after the Varterral with groundless vigour, and then nothing else mattered.

* * *

><p>Anders had practically had a heart attack when she hurtled herself at the beast. She had gone after it with such drive that he'd cast a force field her way to make sure that she didn't get herself squashed. And he hadn't even had time to talk about her rage attack afterwards; as soon as they arrived back in Kirkwall he was called back to his clinic to treat a woman with heart problems.<p>

The trip to Darktown took far longer than he had anticipated. He had just begun to administer a tonic when the woman started to convulse on the table. It took all of his concentration—and a large portion of his mana—to keep the poor patient's heart beating. His attention had been so focused that he hadn't noticed the darkness creep in. It was well into the late hours of the night when he was finally done—and completely worn out. But, as tempted as he was, he knew that he couldn't just spend the night in his clinic.

He had to talk to her. The stunt that she had pulled at Sundermount had only confirmed his suspicions that her wounds went much deeper than she let on. She was hurting, badly, but she wouldn't trouble anyone with that knowledge. Not even him. She had acted so reckless that he was actually surprised when she denied Merrill the arulin'holm that they had gone through all the trouble for. He had half-expected her to toss the blasted thing at the elf and demand to be a part of whatever crazy ceremony Merrill had planned.

His walk to Hightown was quiet and uneventful—for once. It seemed like every time they wandered around the city at night, bandits besieged them. Moving up in the world meant making a lot of new enemies, with some contrived grievance or another. So when he found himself outside the Hawke Estate, without having to have drawn his staff, he was pleasantly surprised.

Bodahn let him into the house, and immediately Anders noticed that the manservant seemed preoccupied. Normally the dwarf was quite talkative, always inquiring about the day's adventure, but tonight he only offered a muttered greeting.

"Bodahn? Is everything all right?"

The dwarf looked up at him, and heaved a sigh. "A letter came for Messere Hawke, but she was very upset when she arrived back from Sundermount. She didn't want to be disturbed."

Anders pinched the bridge of his nose. Something had hurt her in the hours he had been at his clinic. It probably had to do with Merrill's reaction in the Dalish camp when the arulin'holm was withheld from her. Sometimes the elf could be very thick; he understood that she was angry, but lashing out at someone who had just gone through a trauma wasn't the brightest idea.

"Who is the message from?" he asked.

"Her sister, Bethany."

That might cheer her up. She hadn't heard from her sister since the very brief message the Wardens sent that Bethany had survived the Joining. Anders motioned for Bodahn to hand him the letter. It was about time that she had some good news.

As he made his way up to her room, he glanced down at the paper in his hands. It was closed with a wax seal, so she would know if he read it before her. Maybe he should go over it, just to make sure that there was nothing in it that would grieve her. But Bethany had sent this to her sister, not to him. The words were private, not intended for anyone other than the sister to read them.

He found her sitting at her desk, staring down at a piece of paper, blank save for a few words scrawled at the top. He peered over her shoulder, and grimaced. There were only two words at the top of the page, but her distress and conflict was evident in them:

_Dear Bethany,_

Gamlen had said he would write and break the news to Bethany, but of course she would feel obligated to send a letter. Her uncle could be terribly blunt at times, and that wasn't how anyone should find out about a loved one's death. Suddenly the letter in his own hand felt heavy. Before he decided what to do with it, she turned around.

"Merrill is furious at me," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "She accused me of stealing a Dalish artifact, denying her the chance to restore her people's history."

His fists clenched. Damn Merrill … didn't she ever think before she spoke?

"I just … I couldn't. You heard about the Eluvian. It already killed one of her clan, that Tamlen. I can't let that happen to Merrill. I'd never forgive myself if that damn thing did anything to her …" She opened her desk drawer, and stared into it. "She thinks I sold it. I didn't. I'm not going to make money off Dalish history … I just want to protect her. I did the right thing, didn't I?"

"Of course, love. Merrill will come around eventually. She can't stay mad at anyone for long."

She smiled weakly at him, and then caught sight of the paper he was holding. Her eyes widened as she recognized the handwriting.

"From your sister," he said feebly, reluctantly handing it to her. Would this really make her feel better?

"Good." She took it from him. "I hope she's doing all right with the Wardens."

She carefully broke the seal and unfolded the paper. "She doesn't feel lucky, but at least she survived. It was the right thing to do, wasn't it? I couldn't let her die … Nightmares? Is that normal?" She looked up at him, alarmed. When he nodded sadly, she went back to reading. "Bethany's strong … she'll be okay, eventually. She—"

She stopped reading abruptly, and a muscle jerked in her jaw. His chest tightened. What had her sister written that had so visibly disturbed her? Had something horrible happened to Bethany as well? Before he could ask, her hands dropped into her lap.

"Bethany …" Her voice was taut, threatening to break at any moment. "… asked me to tell Mother that … she misses her."

_You fool. You should have read it first!_ He placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. It had been months since the Deep Roads expedition, and this letter sounded like it was penned the second after Bethany awoke from her darkspawn blood-fuelled nightmare. The poor girl wouldn't hear of her mother's death for almost half a year. Of course she would ask about Leandra. He should have known that. He shouldn't have given the letter to her.

"I'm sorry," he groaned. "I shouldn't have—"

"No." She placed her hand over top of his. "I'm glad to know Bethany's okay. But I will have to write to her. I know Uncle Gamlen said that he would, but … it should be me. I should be the one to tell her." Her shoulders sagged under his grip. "I just … have no idea how to write it down."

How could you put something like that into words? She would spare her sister the gory details, but she would know. While she wrote out, as gently as possible, what happened to their mother, she would know exactly what had occurred. Everything would come flooding back.

"I'll help you," he offered. "But not tonight. You can worry about it in the morning. Right now you need rest."

_Don't burn your heart out. Not yet. Not for years and years, until the taint takes me. Don't burn out on me._


	3. Chapter 3

I've become  
>The simple souvenir of someone's kill<br>And like the sea, I'm constantly changing from calm to ill  
>Madness fills my heart and soul<br>As if the great divide could swallow me whole  
>Oh, how I'm breaking down<p>

- City and Colour

**The Night Takes Sides**

Varric had once said that Kirkwall was in love with crisis. She hadn't taken him too seriously at the time; Kirkwall was a city like any other, recovering in the aftermath of the Blight. There were bound to be problems all throughout Thedas. But now? A day didn't go by in this city without something going horribly wrong for someone. As she raced towards the Chantry, intent on finally settling the score with _Mother_ Petrice, she realized that Varric was probably right. It felt like she was hurtling towards something at breakneck speed—unable to slow down, unable to see what was coming. Even if she did manage to sort out this Qunari business, she doubted that would be the end of Kirkwall's love affair with calamity.

They reached the Chantry as night fell. Anders headed up the rear of their motley band. He could never shake the uneasy feeling that came over him every time he neared the Chantry. While he never said anything out loud, she seemed to notice, and so they rarely went by the building. But there was no avoiding it now—and part of him was eager at having another chance at Petrice.

As soon as he saw Saemus kneeling in front of Andraste, Anders knew that something had gone wrong. The boy's posture was just … off, not to mention the fact that the Saemus Dumar he had heard of would never bow to any statue of Andraste. Not when he was so bent on following the Qun. So he wasn't exactly surprised when, as she went to touch him, Saemus slumped forward. Dead. Like she needed another reminder.

Luckily, there wasn't much time for her to dwell on it. The good Mother stepped out of her hiding place seconds later, shouting murder. There was no beating around the bush this time. Petrice had it coming. But of course, the conniving Mother slunk off somewhere and let her mindless zealots do the fighting for her. Anders felt a little distressed, attacking such misguided people, but if he had learned anything over the past few years in Kirkwall, it was him or them.

It was all worth it, though, to see Petrice take those arrows.

* * *

><p>Anders didn't understand why she felt obligated to wait for the Viscount to arrive. As Dumar rushed up to his son's body, Anders felt his stomach churn. He didn't want to be here for this. <em>She<em> shouldn't be here for this. His stomach twisted into a knot when the Viscount bent down to hold his son. Dumar pulled Saemus towards himself, cradling the body—in the same way that she had held her dying mother.

"My son." The voice was quiet, _desperate_, almost like a question. Anders didn't blame him. The Viscount had expected the Champion of Kirkwall to bring his son back, probably kicking and screaming; he hadn't been prepared for death. The thought probably hadn't even crossed his mind. "Murdered in the heart of the Chantry, by those who held a sacred trust. What hope for this city, when we fail our own so completely?"

It was hard to argue with logic like that. Anders could feel Justice stirring angrily inside, but he could handle this. He closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths, and forced the bubbling rage back down. Now was not the time or place.

"This is not over, Excellency." She stood dutifully behind the Viscount, despite being faced with a mirror image of herself not a week ago. Anders had to admire her strength; her expression betrayed nothing. "The city needs a leader."

Dumar nodded once. "It does. And I am no longer that person." For one heart-stopping moment, Anders thought that the Viscount would offer the position to her. But instead his shoulders sagged, and he began to cry unashamedly. That was something she had never done. "Please, Hawke. Leave me."

Anders had never known how to react when somebody cried. So when the bloody _Viscount_—the most powerful person in Kirkwall, other than Meredith—broke down, Anders really had no idea what to do. He just felt awkward, like he had walked in on something he wasn't meant to be part of.

She shifted uncomfortably behind Dumar. A part of her told her to stay, to comfort the poor man. But another part was squirming uncomfortably inside. This was too familiar; she had been here before, playing the Viscount's part. And if she stayed any longer, she would be forced to confront those memories again. She wasn't ready for that. It was too soon. Without making a sound, she backed away slowly. Her companions followed her lead, without any questions or comments. Thank the Maker for their understanding.

Outside the Chantry, the group split up. Aveline had to go back to the barracks to file some reports. Varric would be off to the Hanged Man—she politely declined his customary invitation for a pint. As her two friends departed, she stood for a moment in the street. Deep breaths, that's what she needed. She refused to cry in public, even at night.

A familiar hand grasped her shoulders. Anders. Of course he would stay, though he had been neglecting his patients for days. Guilt surged inside her as she realized that people were probably suffering, being deprived of much sought-after help, while the healer consoled his lover. It had been long enough. She should be fine now. But she wasn't. She wondered if she ever would be.

Anders sensed her distress—nothing escaped his notice—and pulled her in for a hug. She felt him take a deep breath, as he prepared to try and coax out her feelings. He'd been doing so since It had happened, despite her best efforts to dissuade him. Aveline's words came to mind: _Don't let anyone tell you when to move on. Take their hand and say "my choice"._ Anders meant well, she knew that. But talking about it wasn't going to help. That wasn't how she dealt with things, anyway.

She reached up and pressed a finger to his lips, silencing the coming speech. "No talking, okay? I know what I need to do."

* * *

><p>All of Hightown turned out for Leandra Hawke's memorial service. It was held in the Chantry, which seemed to be seeing a lot of death lately. Varric had provided the majority of the funds, despite sincere protests to the contrary.<p>

It was a closed-casket service, which sparked the interest of all the noble guests. Few details had been made public about the murders, and as a result speculations ran wild. It was also a very short service. The Grand Cleric gave a relevant, if aloof, sermon. Some were surprised at the concise speech from the daughter, but the close friends in attendance could see the feeling in it.

What few knew was that Leandra's body was not in fact in the casket. Her daughter had decided on cremation, and had enlisted the help of Anders and Merrill to do so. Only after the memorial service did Anders dare ask what she planned on doing with the ashes.

"It seemed wrong," she said quietly, "to bury Mother here, with Father back in Fereldan. I couldn't keep them so far apart." She looked up at him, hopeful. "Would you come with me to the docks?"

"Of course."

They walked to Lowtown in silence. Occasionally, he would glance down at the urn she had cradled in her arms. It seemed strange to think that all that remained of Leandra Hawke was contained in a painted vase. That there was nothing more left of her on this earth. Would that be him, in twenty-five years?

Their arrival at the waterfront stopped his musings. The sun was just beginning to set, so no one was around to witness this intimate moment. Beside him, she heaved a deep sigh.

"This is it, isn't it? She's really gone." He could tell from her tone that she wasn't looking for an answer. "I did this … so that she and Father can be together again. I couldn't bear to think that she would be trapped in Kirkwall, and he in Lothering. But now …" In one swift movement—so fast that he didn't comprehend what she had done for a few seconds—she pulled the lid off the urn and cast its contents into the water. "Now they have a chance at finding each other."

He stood silent, thinking. Before now, he had never really given much thought to what awaited him after death, even with his limited time. The Chantry said that the spirits of those who die passed through the Fade into the afterlife, whatever that looked like. Would it be possible for two souls to be reunited, after such a long separation? Panic rose up inside him. It _had_ to be possible.

He surprised himself by saying, "I'm sure your father will be waiting for her."

"How do you know?" she asked.

It was logical to question, to be fearful. Even Justice, who had spent so much time in the Fade, was uncertain of where the dead went after they passed through. "A different realm" was all the spirit could explain. But Anders had to believe that, if the Maker and all that the Chantry proclaimed was true, there would be a way to find a loved one after death. And if there was a way, he would be sure to find it.

The choices that he had made years ago in Amaranthine had doomed him. The Warden-Commander—the Queen of Fereldan—had saved his life and ended it at the same time, with a small, unassuming chalice. He hadn't known the consequences of the Joining ritual before he had undertaken it. Even if he had known, he still would have done it. Join the Wardens, or be handed over to the Templars. He never would have come to Kirkwall if not for that cup of darkspawn blood. But because of that small swig, his blood was tainted, and death would take him long before his time.

So he was destined to be separated from his love, in twenty-five years. If there was any way to be reunited with her, he would do it. Even if it meant wandering the Fade as a "lost soul" until life's natural course brought them back together. And if Malcolm Hawke was half the man that his daughter had described, Anders was sure that he would be waiting for his dear wife.

Anders didn't answer her question, and she would chalk it up to his uncertainty about what he believed. But he knew, and he had his answer. He knew because he would be waiting from the moment he died until the moment he could finally hold his love again.


End file.
